


Social Studies

by imnotherehonest



Category: Sex Education (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22664611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imnotherehonest/pseuds/imnotherehonest
Summary: Adam Groff doesn't find life in Moordale easy. Sometimes it seems like he'll never figure it out. But the past year has changed a lot and Adam Groff is learning. Slowly.A look at the Play Incident and the days that follow.Never discourage anyone who continually makes progress, no matter how slow.-Plato
Relationships: Eric Effiong/Adam Groff
Comments: 20
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a sudden thing. Knowing what he needs to do. Something just clicks in his head. So he runs and just keeps running.

It burns. All over. He’s not run in a long time. Years maybe. It sort of feels good. Having a direction. Not like getting high. Different. The burn in his lungs keeps him on track. Air in and air out. Feet on tarmac. It feels right. It feels good.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t think. He just runs. Because this is important. And right now he can’t do both. He’s not sure he could have run like this before. Weed really slowed him down. But this last year he’s cut down. Last few weeks he’s barely even touched his cigarettes. Keeps seeing Eric’s disapproving face when he takes a drag.

His feet hurt by the time he hits the road to the school. And his legs. And his throat. And his ears for some reason. But he keeps running.

It’s like that film with the fish. Just keep running. Just keep fucking running.

His head feels strange when he gets to the school. He stumbles through the gate. Legs wobbly. Like Bambi or some shit. It feels different after class. Fucking weird. He doesn’t normally do after hours.

His heart is going so hard. He can actually hear it. Like that guy who killed people and stuck them under floorboards. Like when he took all that Viagra last year and thought he was going to die with an erection and- No. Focus. Can’t think about that now.

Up the steps. Into the empty hallway. Through the giant pink entranceway. And then he’s there. In the theatre.

“Stop,” he manages. “I’ve got something to say!” As soon as he opens his mouth the burn in his chest doubles him over. Shit. He didn’t factor gasping for air into this plan. His ears are ringing. 

He leaps up onto the stage, nearly shoving into some people in huge shiny tutu things and giant hats. There’s an odd buzz from the audience, but he doesn’t care. Screw them.

He hears someone asking what he’s doing and some girl in a weird skirt hisses at him. He ignores them.

There’s a heap of dick tentacles on the stage. Maybe he should’ve paid more attention to Shakespeare last- Focus, Groff, Focus.

“Eric Effiong?” he manages again. It’s bright on the stage. He didn’t think it would be so hard to find Eric. He sort of imagined he would just be there. Brighter than everyone else like usual. His gut revolts for a second. “Eric Effiong, I have something to say to you.”

Maybe he was wrong. Like usual. Maybe Eric wouldn’t want to see him. Maybe it was too late. Maybe-

“Uh- Adam, I’m- I’m over here,” comes a cautious voice from the darkness.

Eric sounds confused. That’s fair. This is - Well, maybe a bit out of the blue. Adam’s chest is still burning. Maybe so much running was a bad idea. He stumbles towards the lights where Eric’s voice had called to him. And then he finally sees him.

“Eric Effiong, I have something to say to you.” He says again. He feels like a broken record. The luminescent clothes somehow look right on Eric. He looks good. But he also looks kinda scared. Which is not what Adam wants. At all. Not now.

“Well, fucking say it already!” Someone yells from the faceless dark of the audience.

Adam can still hear Eric at that stupid party, saying: ‘You can’t even hold my _hand_ , Adam!’ He feels stuck. Rigid. Like a plastic doll.

“What do you want to say?” Eric asks this time. Adam can feel the eyes on him, but he only cares about the eyes he can see. The ones right in front of him with shimmery stuff around them. Eyes that look scared and hopeful and lost. He can hardly breathe. He wants to scream. He wants to tell everyone else to fuck off. He wants to shout from rooftops. He doesn’t know if he has the guts. His hands are sweating.

This is worse than taking ten Viagra. Worse than confronting Amy at her party. Worse than being kicked out of Military school. But.

But Eric needs to know. Adam’s shit at words, but he needs to know. He needs to know that Adam lo- He needs to know that Adam wants to try.

“I want to hold your hand.” It all comes out at once. He’s not sure if Eric will remember. Adam’s not Shakespeare. There’s no flowers and dick forests and silver tutus. But Adam is alive. And he is not his father. He keeps his head up. He’s shaking.

He sees Eric look away. It feels like the stage has disappeared into inky blackness. Like the floor is gone. 

He wants to look away. To shrug it off. To tug his heart back from his sleeves. But he can’t. Not now.

His shell feels too thin. He doesn’t want to shut everyone away. He doesn’t want to be like his dad. He wants to feel things. Adam feels things with Eric. He feels things when he just looks at Eric. He feels things when Eric rolls his eyes at him. He feels things when Eric talks. He feels things when Eric looks at him.

Eric is looking at him now, and it’s like popping candy is going off in his face and in his chest. He wants to feel things with Eric. And he hopes. God, he hopes maybe Eric wants to feel things with him.

Eric opens his mouth, and the popping candy stops dead for a second.

“Say it again,” Eric says. It’s part request, part question. It’s not no. But it’s a warning. It’s a no-take-backsies. Eric’s eyes are still so unsure. It’s like walking on razor wire.

Adam reaches his hand out. His heart is jumping in his chest. His throat is tight. His gut is roiling.

“Please?” He asks. And then, like jumping off a diving board, hoping there might be water below. “Will you hold my hand?”

There’s a split-second where Adam clings to the last of his composure. Mask on the floor. Fully exposed in a way that he has never felt before. Not when his dad gave up and sent him away. Not when he flashed their entire lunch hall his penis.

Eric’s eyes are wet. There’s sweat mingling with glitter on his face. Adam braces himself for no. For fuck off. For something.

But then Eric is smiling. A tiny, careful smile.

“Yes.” And his hand is warm and solid. And Adam feels like his insides might disintegrate if he lets go.


	2. Chapter 2

His dad is sitting on the front step when Adam reaches the house.

He looks uncomfortable. He’s sort of, tucked in on himself. Like a crumpled napkin. Sat on the doorstep of the house. Like he doesn’t know where to be or where to look.

Normally his dad knows. He’s always known. He’s always sure. He always tells Adam how things will be. He’s never not sure, not certain. But he didn’t know about this.

“Well, uh-” the man starts. But then he stops like he’s one of those toys with a string. He blinks a few times. He tries again. “I- You- uh-”.

It’s like he’s stuck. Like he’s the one that’s no good with words. He looks hollow. Empty. It feels wrong.

“So-” He stops again. He’s not formidable like this. He’s not sure of himself. He’s just a man who has been caught off guard. Again. A man who has been shown that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Adam’s not scared of him. Not now.

“I didn’t know you were-” he trails off. Like there’s something he doesn’t dare to say. And Adam knows what.

“You didn’t know what, dad?” Adam cuts in. Blankly, robotically. And his dad actually flinches. Like maybe he expected Adam to be cowed by this conversation. Like Adam might be embarrassed, might try to deny it.

“I didn’t know you were-” He pauses again. Adam wonders if his dad has always worn this much brown. “ _You know_ \- uh-” The man’s hands flutter vaguely.

Adam stares back at him again. He’s not going to fill that silence. His dad continues to squirm.

Adam thinks that Eric would have spoken up to defend himself by now, or at the very least have rolled his eyes hard. Adam just stays quiet. Blank.

“ _You know_ …” he says again, voice low. He’s still fidgeting. He can’t even seem to look at Adam. Screw this.

“What, _dad_?” This time it doesn’t come out blank. It comes out pointed. His dad looks away again. Adam shakes his head. He’s not dealing with this right now. He turns to go inside.

“You never said-” his dad starts. And Adam wants to walk away. He wants to shut everything off and pretend he doesn’t care what his stupid dad thinks anyway. He takes a breath and thinks of Eric. Loud. And happy. And free. And so open.

“You never asked, dad.” It’s quiet. It’s soft. Adam’s chest hurts. But it still feels more free than ignoring everything.

“What’s going on?” The door opens.

Adam knows that his mum has always been pretty. But this week she’s actually looked happy. For the first time in years. She looks so much younger. So much more alive. And his dad looks flat. Drained. Empty. He looks like he’s been runover by a steamroller next to her.

She looks between Adam and his dad. There’s a question in her eyes. Adam shrugs. She opens the door wider. And then she walks back inside, toward the kitchen. She leaves it open.

Adam’s dad moves with her like a man in a daze. Adam has the sudden urge to run. Out the door. Through the woods again. Anywhere but here.

He did care what his dad thought. He didn’t want to, but he did. But not like he cared what his mum might say. He hadn’t really even thought about it. Somehow. The different worlds of his mum and him liking guys just hadn’t really crossed. In his head.

He finds himself drawn into the house though. Feet moving slowly. Like the air was thick. Like walking through water in the pool when he was a kid.

His dad is sat at the table. In his spot. Almost like he never left. His mum is making tea.

She still looks more alive. The kettle boils and she pours. Just one mug. Not two. She slips off her shoes as the tea brews. And then leaves them on the floor rather than away in the hall. Her toenails are painted a dark pink. She doesn’t even look at his dad, just smiles at Adam. And then sits in a different chair. And tucks her feet under herself on the chair. She holds the mug of tea and blows on it before taking a sip.

His mum gestures with her head to her chair. The chair between her and his dad. She’s smiling softly, just at the edges. The contrast is bizarre.

It feels very surreal.

Adam is suddenly tired. He reaches out to drag the chair back. It grates horribly on the tile floor. He sits down. His mum looks at ease. His dad looks like he might vibrate out of his own skin.

“ _Adam_ thinks he’s _gay_!” his dad spits into the quiet of the room.

The words hang in the air. And they force the air out of Adam. He feels winded.

“Michael!” His mum snaps, as Adam squares his shoulders. He’s angry, but he doesn’t have the words to say why.

“I’m bisexual,” he says instead. Tightly. Quietly. Firmly. Hands in his lap. He doesn’t look at his dad. “Mum-” He dares a glance at her.

She’s shaking her head. His heart actually stops. There are tears there. But her eyes are soft like they used to be when he was little. And then her arms are around his shoulders.

“Oh Adam,” she whispers. Adam’s vision is slightly blurry when she pulls his head up to look at her. Her hands are cool against his cheeks, a ring digging into his jaw. “I know things haven’t exactly been easy lately.” She absent-mindedly strokes at the hair she had agreed was too short just a couple of months ago. “But you’ll always be my little boy. I love you, and that is not going to change just because of who you bring home.”

She hugs him again and this time he tentatively hugs her back. There’s an emotion that Adam can’t quite pin down. A good one. It makes him feel warm and secure. His mum seems to have forgotten that his dad is there. She smiles at him again, wiping at slightly smudged eyes.

Then something flickers. She pulls back and studies him, a different kind of spark in her dark eyes. There’s suddenly a question there.

“Wait- Is there- Is there a boy?” His mum looks quietly delighted. And Adam feels his cheeks heat. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look this excited before. A small part of him wants to be annoyed, that this is what actually interests his mum about his life. But if he’s honest, this is the first thing in his life that has really interested him too. In a long time.

He knows his face is probably a shade of pink bright enough that Eric might wear it, so it’s not worth pretending otherwise. He can’t hold back the tiny smile either. His mum makes a small noise and hugs him again.

“Are we even going to talk about this?” Adam’s dad says suddenly. Loudly. Angrily. He stands up, and for a moment he’s taller than Adam again. He’s almost spitting as he enunciates. “ _Adam_ is _not_ gay! He has not got any _idea_ what he _actually_ _wants_ at all! He’s- confused! He’s just a- a- _stupid child_! He’s-”

“Get out.” Adam’s mum is stood up too and her face is like thunder. “Now.”

Adam used to think his mum was like his Grandma’s glass ballet dancer figurines. Small and fragile. Right now she looks like ice. Not like a snowflake. Not delicate. Like an iceberg. Like she looks smaller than she really is. Like she could sink a huge unsinkable ship. Like that film with Leonardo di Caprio she likes.

His dad deflates like a damp paper bag.

“Maureen-” he breathes. It carries no weight.

“Get out of my house!” she hisses.

Adam’s dad looks like he’s shrinking. Like he’s disappearing into himself. Disappearing into a dull, beige, crumpled heap. He’s still standing, and he’s still nearly 6 feet tall. But he looks small, feeble, next to Adam’s mum. He opens his mouth as if to argue, but no sound comes out. His eyes flick back and forth between Adam and his mum as if this might yet be some kind of bizarre joke. He picks up his brown jacket from the back of his chair, eyes still flicking left and right. He looks like a cornered animal.

He moves like he’s in a daze. Like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Like he’s still expecting his wife or his son to call him back. He reaches the door still looking back. His mouth opens and closes again. It’s like something has broken. No sound comes out. He shuffles on the spot. And then he’s gone. The door closes with a click.

Adam’s mum lets out a breath. And then something like a whimper.

Adam feels frozen to the spot. He wants to ask what just happened. It feels like he’s watching from far away. His insides feel odd. He feels like he should want to retreat, to hide to lick his wounds. But nothing hurts. Not really.

His mum is crying. But he doesn’t know what to do. He reaches out as if to pat her shoulder and stops, awkward.

But she pulls him close.

She really is tiny, he thinks. Her nose doesn’t reach his shoulder. She’s shaking, gently. Making quiet breathy noises as she cries. He closes his arms around her. Slowly. Like she might break if he hugs her too tightly.

There is hurt there, Adam realises as he pulls her close. It’s not sharp. Not new. It’s more like a deep ache. It’s not fresh or clean. It’s not a surface wound. It feels dark and jagged and sloughy. It feels like something has rotted away. He tries to will it away, shove it down. His eyes sting.

He hugs his mum tighter, but the soft sad noises she makes only get louder. His vision fuzzes. He blinks, trying to will the feeling down.

“It’s okay mum,” he murmurs softly, trying to force his voice neutral. But he doesn’t have much neutral left.

His chest hurts. He closes his eyes and tries to put reassurance into his voice and into the hug.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers vaguely. Somehow he almost believes it himself. The ache is still there. But, there’s something else. His mum takes a deep shaky breath. She looks up at him, makeup smeared around her eyes. Caught in the crinkles. Dripping over her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Adam,” she murmurs. Her voice catches and squeaks. He doesn’t understand – sorry for what? Crying? “I’m so, so sorry.”

She puts her head on his chest again. And she gasps out a sob. It doesn’t make any sense. Sorry for being upset? Sorry for making his dad leave? Sorry for shouting?

He shakes his head. He feels lost. Ache momentarily forgotten. He opens his mouth to ask what she means.

“I should have said something!” she gasps out. “God, I should have _done_ _something_! I should have-”

Her shoulders are shaking. There’s a damp patch on Adam’s shirt. It’s sort of cold.

“Mum-?” Adam hears his voice wobble. He still doesn’t understand, but now he can’t breathe. There’s an odd still in the air. Like the lull before a gust of wind.

“I should never have let him speak to you like that!” she gasps out. And it’s like he turns around just to see a wave peak above his head. Too close to react. Too far for it to be over with. Just a moment of surprise.

Adam feels cold. His mum’s not done.

“I’m a coward, I should have- But- But I- I didn’t want to lose him too. And after your sister…” Adam’s skin prickles. He feels sick. His mum sniffs.

The ache in his chest is searing icy cold. He shakes his head. His teeth are chattering.

His mum steadies herself. She takes a breath. And then another. She lifts up her head and squares her shoulders. Adam feels like his insides are in an earthquake. Or a cement mixer. His mouth is thick. His face is burning. His mum steadies her gaze right at him. And there’s no ice there. No broken glass. Her eyes are deep and warm and solid. Like warm bricks in summer. Like honey and warm firesides. Like a furnace.

“But-” she says again. And this time her voice doesn’t shake. Her eyes are burning, holding him in place. “I’m not going to let him speak to you like that anymore.”

Something small rips in Adam’s chest. And then the ache bursts.

Adam feels a great heave of a sob hit him like another wall of water. Thrown bodily off balance. Gasping to take a breath before being pulled under again. Caught in an endless spin underwater. Not knowing which way is up. Choking and struggling in it. His chest hurts. His breathing spasms.

But his mum is holding him. Like an anchor. Safe. Solid despite her size. More human than he has ever noticed.

And the pain feels just a little bit- cleaner somehow. Like opening a window in a damp, filthy room. Like, maybe it won’t always be like that. Maybe it might get a little better. Maybe there’s still something to salvage.

“I don’t want to be a useless screw-up, Mum.” It comes out unsteady, voice scratching and heaving and so quiet. His nose is running. He swipes his hand across his face, feeling like a child.

There’s a sharp breath. His mum’s grip is like a vice tightening.

“You are _not_ useless, Adam Groff. And you are not a screw up.” His mum’s voice is tight, but firm. Fierce. Angry. She pauses for a second, looking slightly pained. “A work in _progress_. In places. And you haven’t found your place in the world yet. But you’re so _young_ , Adam. You have time. You have _so_ _much time_. And I should never have let your father say-”

Her voice breaks. Just snaps off, brittle at the end. She closes her eyes.

“And I’m proud of you,” she continues. Voice like steel again. “I’m so, so proud of you for telling me today. And I’m so proud of you for holding your ground, and not shouting back. I know it can’t have been easy. And I know that I can’t go back and be a better example for you. But you are setting an example for me today.”

“I’m scared, Mum.” It’s barely a whisper. His mum doesn’t say anything. She just keeps hugging him.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning the radio is on when Adam makes it into the kitchen. Adam blinks blearily at it. It feels both right and a bit ominous that even the house feels different. He wants things to be different. But not too different. Not right now.

There’s a vase of flowers on the table that wasn’t there last night, and a bag of shopping on the counter. The house looks brighter somehow. And it smells nicer. There’s a small jug thing he’s never seen before with brown liquid in it. It smells like coffee. It has a plunger in it. Adam sniffs it again.

And then he pours a little bit into a mug and sniffs that. He tastes it. It tastes like coffee. He pours a little more out. And then flinches as someone walks into the kitchen. His dad’s voice barks in his head: no caffeine. His hand twitches. Like his brain is trying to reverse itself. Tip the coffee back out of the mug. He immediately puts it down. Like he’s been caught red-handed. His mum just smiles widely at him.

“Pour me a cup?” She sinks into a chair and then groans in relief. She laughs to herself. “These shoes look good, but they are not comfortable! I don’t know how I used to wear these all the time.”

She’s wearing more colour than usual again today. She kicks off a pair of royal blue heels and nudges them under the table. Adam feels his insides twist. His dad will-

But. His dad’s not here. His dad can’t kick off if he’s not here.

It’s an odd surge of- something. Like there’s suddenly more air in the room. His dad is not here. He’s not here to bark that ‘caffeine is detrimental to growing minds’, or snap to ‘put the shoes where they belong, for gods sake’. There’s no one else there. Just him and his mum. And Madam. Snuffling around the bin. But she’s not going to shout at him.

He picks up the mug of coffee again and takes a sip. Nothing happens. No pointed cleared throat. No huff. It feels- strange. He takes another mouthful. Just to savour that feeling again.

He pours his mum her cup into a mug with flowers that look like the ones on the table. Pink and red and purple. Lots of petals. He goes to grab milk. Except. The fridge is full. The fridge is never full. The fridge is usually stocked with essentials only. Adam’s dad insisted that anything else would be a waste of money. But today there’s fruit and meat and cheese. Jam and bacon and juice. It’s like opening someone else’s cupboard.

He stays staring at it for too long. The fridge beeps time. He steals a glance at his mum. She’s smiling.

“I thought we could try something different and have a few people over this evening,” she says, eyes firmly on the cup of coffee on the counter. “Do you know Otis Milburn?”

Adam nods jerkily. Confused. Why the hell would his mum invite New Kid for dinner?

“His mum Jean is coming over,” she continues. That- makes a bit more sense. Although, Adam somehow can’t see his mum and Jean Milburn spending time together. Or maybe he just can’t imagine Jean Milburn in his house. Jean Milburn in his dad’s house. Jean Milburn and his dad were like chalk and oil. Or something.

His mum’s still talking though.

“I thought, maybe-” She hesitates. “You could invite a couple of people over too.” Her voice is tissue-paper soft now. Like she’s walking on eggshells. Like she doesn’t quite dare to say what she wants to say. Like she’s trying not to spook him.

She spooks him.

He can’t hold her eyes. He thrusts her cup of coffee at her, nearly slopping it over the sides of the cup and onto the clean table.

“I need to go.” He blurts out. “I’ll- think about it.”

He walks out of the kitchen like his socks are on fire. Shoves his feet into his trainers without untying them. Grabs a jacket and walks out of the door before he even thinks about where he’s going.

He’s not backing down. He’s not. He’s just- It’s just- It’s far too early. It’s too new. It’s too fresh. And Eric wouldn’t want to meet his mum, right?

His stomach growls at him. He didn’t even eat breakfast. Just looked at it. And then ran off like a deer in the headlights.

He had met Eric’s mum. Last night. That had been fine. It had felt- good even. Right. Safe. But he knew that Eric’s family must be cool. They made Eric. He’d seen Eric talking with his dad. Heard his dad saying how proud he was of his son. Eric had said that he couldn’t imagine being scared of his own dad.

He still can’t imagine bringing Eric home.

But his visions of ‘home’ still include his dad. Scowling. Looking at his watch. Saying 'You’re five minutes after curfew!' Taking his phone like he’s twelve. Screaming at him when Amy walks out of the house in a huff. Except, instead his dad scowling at Eric. Looking him up and down with distaste. Asking him what he’s doing with his life. Adam too cowed to say anything as his dad sneers. Eric hurt and angry and walking out the door. Adam too shit scared to follow him. Because it’s after fucking curfew. Like a nightmare where you can’t run or move or speak and you just have to watch.

He almost wants his feet to take him to Eric’s house. But he hasn’t brushed his teeth. And it’s 10am on a Saturday. And that would be weird. But Adam still wants to go and throw pebbles at his window. To make sure his face appears, half rumpled with sleep. To make sure it was actually real. To check Eric doesn’t regret saying yes. To him. To all the shit he drags with him.

And he’s not stupid enough to think that Eric will want him to play it cool exactly. But- But he thinks maybe it would be a bad idea to seem _too_ needy right now. Because he doesn’t want Eric to worry he’s backing out. Or that he’s freaking out. Because he’s really not. He’s _really_ not. He just-

He runs his hands through his hair. His stupid short hair.

He’s just- Just- Overthinking. Like usual.

He needs to get some of it to make sense in his head before he does something stupid. Like he does with everything. Like he did with Amy. He hits dial before he can back out.

“Hey, can- Can we just- chat? Or something?” There’s a pause on the other end. A yawn. A rustle. A hum of someone stretching. Light footsteps.

“Breakfast on my last paycheque?” comes a quiet voice from the phone. Adam smiles. It’s like someone has lifted an anvil off his chest. Like a Loony Toons character.

He really likes having an actual friend.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s not exactly loads of choice in Moordale for breakfast. In fact, it’s pretty much the Jem’s Caf, or Brown’s Village Store for a chocolate bar. And that isn’t exactly appealing right now.

Jem’s Caf isn’t that different to what you’d expect a coffee shop with a bright orange sign in a small village in the British countryside to be like. It’s a little bit tired. It doesn’t exactly serve flat whites or fancy coffees like you’d find in London or Brighton. It sort of has, just, coffee. And tea. And coke. And omelettes. And bacon and eggs on toast. And ham sandwiches if you get there before 2pm.

“Jem” retired last year. Her daughter Sarah runs the place now with a perpetually raised, slightly over-plucked eyebrow and nails that probably don’t quite comply with hygiene standards. The tablecloths are a bit grey and most of the tables wobble a bit. But it does fine enough.

Sarah looks a little worse for wear when Adam arrives to meet Ola. Her hair is a bit dusty with dry shampoo. She pouts at Adam and raises an eyebrow. Maybe the unimpressed stare is just one she puts on when he comes in. She looks him up and down.

“Shame really, love.” She says, hand on hip, examining the gems on her acrylics.

“What?” Adam is genuinely confused for a minute. But then something creeps down his spine. She can’t _know_. But then, if anyone is known for gossip in Moordale it is Sarah. He looks at her. She smirks at him. He wants to leave. Right now.

The bell rings over the door and Ola is there like a tiny knight, still in her suit from last night. Adam forgets about Sarah and tilts his head at her. Ola smirks back like the cat who got the cream. She links her elbow with his and looks at the board.

“Have you ordered?” she hums in thought. Adam stops. He’s not sure what a friend would say here. He can see the way Eric and Otis would laugh and roughhouse a little in his head. But he’s twice the size of Ola. He can imagine that Eric might call Ola a dirty stop-out, wide grin on his face. But that feels wrong too.

“You didn’t go home last night,” he says, blunt. More his style. She grins at him again. She seems happy. Really, genuinely happy. And the suit looks sharp, even crinkled. Not his type, but she looks good. He feels under dressed. If he’s going out with Eric he’ll need nicer clothes. When he and Eric go out. Together. On a date. An actual date.

They order and Adam is too busy thinking to remember what he’s said. What would Eric want to do on a date? Go to the cinema? Bowling? He has a vague idea that Eric hates bowling, but he doesn’t know why. Ola clears her throat and looks at him pointedly.

“Less of the freaking out, more of the talking. That’s what we’re here for, right?” she says. Adam looks away out the window. An old Land Rover trundles past, almost more duct tape than car. He watches it go.

“You’re not regretting it, are you?” Her voice is soft. Like it would be okay, even if he was. Which he’s not. He shakes his head. That’s not what this is about. He thinks. No, it’s about what comes next. It’s about-

“Adam?” she looks like she’s trying to coax a puppy out from behind the sofa. Adam shakes his head. Trying to clear out the spare thoughts like they might shake loose.

“I don’t want to fuck it up.” He says instead. It comes out quiet. Ola grabs his hand on the table and squeezes.

Adam sticks to watching the cars go by outside. He does thinking. Overthinking. The weed snapped him out of it for an hour or two a pop. Then it made it worse. Much worse. He doesn’t really do words so much. Sometimes. But not a lot. Somehow that doesn’t seem to matter to Ola. Or Eric.

But he knows words are important too.

“I told my mum,” he gets out. Ola actually gasps. Surprised. Pleased.

“Wait, you told your mum about Eric?” she sounds excited. It’s nice having a friend to tell. Kyle- Well, they didn’t talk about much. Even before Aimee.

“I told her I’m bisexual,” he ventures. Ola looks impressed. She nods encouragingly. And then she leaves a pause. The option for Adam to say more in his own time. To find his words. One word at a time. “Actually, my dad sort of-”

What did Adam’s dad do? Grass on him? Try to drop him in it? Rat him out?

“Well- outed me. But- wrong.” It feels odd to say. Ola looks affronted. Like she might go out fists swinging for him. All 5 foot nothing of her. He can tell she wants to respond. But she doesn’t say anything, just sort of, hmmffs. He wants to hug her again.

“He said that I think I’m gay. Which I don’t.” Adam kicks the table. The little salt and pepper shakers wobble.

Sarah is hovering in his peripheral vision, carrying his coffee and Ola’s tea. She looks like she wants to stay and listen in, but Ola glares at her until she slams the mugs down on the table and walks away.

“What did you say?” Ola half-whispers when Sarah has returned to her position behind the counter.

“I said, ‘actually I’m bisexual’,” Adam shrugs. Plain and simple. Straightforward. Ola looks at him for a beat, and then starts laughing. He looks at her. It’s a happy laugh. It’s nice. It’s kind of contagious. Not like high laughing. Just happy.

He grins shyly, pleased. The coffee is warm in his hands. It feels nice. Talking.

“She was good.” He admits. “I wasn’t sure-”

Ola just nods. Like she knows what he means. And maybe she does. His leg is moving like it always does if he’s sat down for too long. Like he needs to keep going at all times. He hesitates. Then adds:

“He was shit. My dad.” She doesn’t humph this time. She seems to just know not to. That this is one of those times when words won’t cut it. Her face scrunches up. She looks at him for a second longer and then shifts her chair and throws an arm over his shoulder. She seems to know that Adam is done talking now. Somehow.

“My dad told Otis that Lily and I are dating.” She says dryly, nose still scrunched up. Adam plays along. He can listen too.

“How’d that go?” he ventures. She shrugs. She’s still got an arm around his shoulders. She’s a bit too short for it really. But it’s nice. Not in a sexual way or anything even remotely like that. Just. Nice.

“Fine, actually,” she sighs. “He was okay. And then my dad told Otis that young people are weird.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. He’s not heard Ola talk about her dad much. Except when her dad was dating her boyfriend’s mum and then it was mostly about New Kid rather than about her dad.

“How did your dad take you being into kitchen appliances?” he counters and bumps his shoulder into her. She raises her eyebrows. It looks better on her than Sarah the café lady.

Adam feels a smile break onto his face despite himself. Ola shoves him. He gently shoves her back.

“He was- good.” She echoes him, carefully. She sounds both amused and pained. “I think Otis’s mum had- um- explained some- things to him. He stocked the bathroom cupboard with dental dams and latex gloves.” She laughs, covering her face with her spare hand.

Adam frowns. He doesn’t really know what that means, but he’s guessing some sort of sex thing. Because its Jean Milburn.

“First time I met _Jean_ , she told me smoking weed gives you ‘ _early onset impotence’_.” He mimics Mrs Milburn’s careful pronunciation. Ola stares at him for a second and then just laughs harder. She’s sort of laughing at him, he knows, but so is he. He keeps going. “I panicked and took 3 Viagra at once while high as _shit_ at school. Thought I was dying until New Kid and Wiley found me,” he grumbles under his breath.

She’s fully cracking up now. Fully gasping for air. She snorts. Loudly.

“Oh God, Adam,” she wheezes at him. He scrunches his face into the same scrunched up, pained but amused expression she had used. He’s really not talked to anyone about this before. But talking to Ola feels like a kind of release valve. And it is kinda funny. Now it’s not happening. He smiles into his coffee. She sniffs, and swipes at her eyes, still giggling, trying to muffle it with her hand.

But then Adam remembers. That was when New Kid made Adam promise to leave Eric alone. And the end of his only actual previous relationship. And it’s suddenly not funny anymore. He wants to clamp everything down. Batten down the hatches. Run for cover.

“I’m gonna fuck this up,” he blurts out before he can bite his own tongue. He clenches his hands in his lap. His nails bite into his skin. Ola stops mid laugh.

“What? What just happened?” She rounds on him. “Where did that weird head of yours just go?”

Adam stares bullishly out of the window. Ola doesn’t even know what a fuck up he is. She wasn’t there last year. She didn’t know. She wouldn’t like him if-

She smacks him on the arm. She’s looking at him expectantly.

“Spit it out, Groff!” she tilts her head at him. “What the hell? We’re talking, not freaking out, remember?”

He’s saved momentarily by Sarah coming over with their food. Ola smacks him on the arm again before their plates are set down. To let him know he’s not off the hook.

Sarah actually looks affronted that they stop talking whenever she comes over. She all but throws the 2 plates of bacon at them.

Ola shoves her bacon butty in her mouth and makes a muffled happy sound. Adam suddenly doesn’t feel all that hungry. He picks at his bacon. He prefers it crispy anyway. Even if his dad says it will give him cancer to eat the burnt bits.

“No!” Ola smacks him on the arm again. Her voice is muffled by sandwich. “Talk!”

“I fucked it up with Aimee,” he mutters. Shoving a piece of bacon in his mouth. Ola looks at him, mouth full of food.

“Mmph, did you actually flash everyone in the middle of lunch, and then gate-crash her party?” She takes yet another enormous mouthful and looks at him expectantly. Curious. Not judgemental. Just interested. Adam blinks at her. She knows about that? She shakes her head at him.

“You know I go to the same school as you. People talk.” She at least has the decency to cover her mouth when she’s talking. Unlike Kyle. Adam looks out the window again instead. She finishes chewing and flicks his hand.

“Look, you did some stupid shit. You were a walking “drugs are bad” advert. I get it. Shit happens. Shit happened.” Ola shrugs. She knocks her shoulder into his again. “You gonna flash everyone at school to ‘own your story’ again?”

Adam fidgets.

“No, but-” he mutters. Ola cuts him off.

“Are you gonna break into Eric’s house, even after he’s told you to go away?” She looks at him fiercely. He feels small. But not like when his dad yells. Just like he has a long way to go. Like he’s a bit far away.

“No,” he admits. She smiles at him.

“Then what’s the problem?” She asks archly. Like she’s won an argument. She kind of has. Except-

“I need nicer clothes,” Adam says under his breath. Like it’s a secret. His cheeks feel hot. He looks up at Ola. She’s smiling. Like she’s proud of him. Like he’s actually done something important.

She shoves the rest of her bacon butty into her mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

Adam’s feet seem to have stopped doing what he says. It’s broad daylight. Cloudy, grey daylight. But still. Daylight. It feels odd.

He’s stood on the pavement outside Eric’s house. Hands in pockets. He’s been stood there for ten minutes already. The curtains in the house across the road are twitching at the edges on his vision. He can picture someone like his gran, one hand on the phone to call the police if he does something suspicious. Like creeps around the back of the house to throw stones at the windows.

It’s just a terraced house. On a hill. With a blue front door. Just a house. He just has to walk up to the front door and ring the bell. That’s it. Put one foot in front of the other.

It hadn’t been until Ola had gone home that Adam had realised. It was a stupid detail. But Adam can’t help but think it’s an important one. He doesn’t have Eric’s number. He can’t text him. He can’t get texts. He can’t ring him up and ask him on a date.

So now he’s here. Outside Eric’s house. Just a house.

Adam clenches and unclenches his hands in his pockets. He can do this. He shifts his weight. Walking. Even babies can do walking. He makes it to the doorstep. The doorbell is black, shiny plastic. Slightly scratched. He tugs his hand out of his pocket, a crinkled receipt escaping. He fumbles for it on the floor. He feels like a kid. His hand is shaking slightly. Shit.

He takes another breath. He can do this.

The generic ding-dong of the doorbell catches him off guard. Again. He somehow expected something different. He’s still caught looking at the doorbell like an alien when the door opens. He feels off-balance. He had been preparing himself for Eric’s mum. One of his sisters. Maybe even Eric himself. But it’s a bloke. And not Eric. He stands there for a second. Struck dumb.

Eric’s dad frowns at him. Adam recognises him from the dance last year. Sort of. It had been a bit dark. Eric’s dad looks confused. And Adam realises that he’s just standing there. Staring.

“Is- Uh-” he stumbles. His voice cracks. He clears his throat. His back feels oddly tense. He sort of wants to stand to attention. Salute. But that would be odd. He looks away. He scratches the back of his head. Words. Just say words.

“Is- Eric in?” he manages, haltingly. Then bites his tongue to stop himself adding ‘Sir’.

Mr Effiong studies him. Adam suddenly wishes he’d showered again before coming over. Or maybe shaved. Or worn jeans without holes in the knees. Or-

And then the man smiles. It’s not like the way Eric smiles – splitting his face in half with it. He seems to get that from his mum. It’s not like Adam’s dad smiles either – plastered on, paper thin, skin deep. The way Eric’s dad smiles is subtle. More in the eyes than the teeth. He nods, knowingly, and Adam gets the feeling that he’s passed some kind of silent test. But he doesn’t know what.

Eric’s dad tilts his head into the house.

“Eric,” he calls. He doesn’t shout, but his voice carries.

Mr Effiong holds the door open a little more and gestures Adam inside. Adam hesitates for a second. He hadn’t expected to go inside the house. He hasn’t been inside the house before. And again, he feels like he’s missed a step. Like his footing has given way.

There’s a shuffle and then a high pitched noise from the hallway behind Mr Effiong. A shriek. Sudden. Loud. Adam jumps. One of Eric’s sisters.

“Eric! Eric! Adam’s here! Adam’s here,” someone sing-songs.

Despite feeling like he’s wobbling on a tightrope, something flutters pleasantly in Adam’s gut. It reminds him of being younger; watching his sister and her friends play. It’s familiar. It soothes the jarring oddness.

He steps inside. It’s nice. Quite small for 6 people. And not what he expected of Eric’s house, although Adam supposes that his house doesn’t exactly scream Adam from every pore. He makes it into the hall. It feels lived in. Alive. Not messy, but not a façade either. He wants to take it all in. Eric’s house. Eric’s family. Eric’s home. Eric’s things.

And then he hears him. Adam spins like one of those satellite dish telescopes toward the sound.

“Alright, alright Sasha!” Eric is saying. Adam can almost see the way his eyes are rolling. Like how they used to roll at Adam. Still do sometimes. But warmer than before. More amusement than anger.

Adam has stopped in the middle of the hallway. Frozen by the sound of Eric’s voice. He blinks. Waiting. And then Eric is half jogging down the stairs. Like Adam might have disappeared in the extra few seconds it would’ve taken to walk. Like he wants to see Adam as soon as possible. He’s running a hand over his short hair. Grinning. He looks great.

“Hey Adam,” he says. It’s just a bit breathy. A bit uncertain. Like he might scare Adam off if he’s too forward. Or too loud. Or says too much.

“I don’t have your number,” Adam hears his voice announce. He wants to roll his eyes at himself now. He can hear his dad in his head hissing, ‘manners, Adam!’.

Eric doesn’t look perturbed though. Eric just looks surprised. Like the thought hadn’t occurred to him either. He drags his phone out of his pocket and looks at it.

“You don’t have my number?” he repeats. Like he doesn’t understand. And then it clicks. “I mean, you _want_ my number. Right. Um. Yeah. Cool.” He rambles. He seems pleased. Ruffled, but pleased. His eyes still have a smudge of blue around the edges. “Uh-”

He looks between the phone and Adam again. Then unlocks it and holds it out. Adam takes it. It feels like his heart might try to jump out of his chest. The phone is warm from Eric’s pocket. His fingers tingle with it. He wants to feel that warmth for himself.

But not here. Not just yet. Not in front of Eric’s family.

Adam doesn’t know his number. Normally that doesn’t bother him. Details like that just don’t quite stick right. The numbers get confused in his head. He starts to mix them up, scramble them. And why would he need to know his number anyway? Who would he tell it to? It’s just always been easier to check on his phone. But now, in front of Eric, he feels slow as he opens his phone. His lock screen is Madam, tongue hanging out, rolling on the floor. He feels like Madam is smarter than he is. Eric probably knows his number. At least his number is high up in his contacts. A for Adam. He taps the number in. Slowly. Carefully. Then checks it’s right. He hands both phones over to Eric to do the same.

Eric doesn’t need to look up his number. Of course. And he types fast. Faster than Adam. His nails are still painted blue. It’s bright and clear against his skin. It looks nice. He has nice hands, Adam thinks vaguely. Warm and sure. But he can’t think about holding them right now. And he definitely can’t think about them holding him. Warm even through his clothes. Grip firm.

Adam stares at a colourful vase on a side table. Willing his cheeks not to go pink. He almost misses Eric trying to hand the phone back.

Eric is still looking a bit in shock. His eyes are wide and keep darting up and down. Like he’s checking if Adam is actually real. Like he’s still expecting Adam to disappear again. Adam doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s not going anywhere.

Then Eric’s eyes flick to the side and snag over Adam’s shoulder, and he frowns. Adam turns around. Another of Eric’s sisters is stood watching them from behind the bannister. She’s wearing a dress with colours almost as bright as Eric’s clothes. She sticks her tongue out and ducks back into another room without a word.

“Shall we- go for walk?” Eric sounds strained. A mixture of amused and exasperated that only siblings can create. Adam nods silently. It’s nice. Seeing Eric with his family. But he wouldn’t want his mum listening in to his conversations with Eric. Not yet.

Eric looks unsure. On edge. Yesterday he was all smiles. Now it feels- awkward. Adam’s not sure what to do. It’s like that first night he took Eric to the scrap yard. Like a step back. Adam doesn’t want a step back. He wants a step forward.

Silence feels like a step back. Words would be a step forward.

“I told my mum,” he offers into the silence when Eric has pulled the door closed behind them. Eric wheels round to look at him. His eyes are wide with surprise. Adam shrugs self-consciously. They’ve stopped at almost the exact spot he was frozen in earlier.

“Adam, that’s amazing!” Eric exclaims. “Oh my God, tell me everything.”

Eric starts walking again. He’s grinning, bright and free. Adam feels something flutter in his chest. He did that.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. He wants to hold Eric’s hand again, but he’s not quite sure how to ask.

“I told her I’m bisexual.” He says quietly. To the pavement. He may need to work on his story telling. “It was- good. I think.”

He looks up at Eric. Eric laughs, loud and clear. He grabs Adam’s arm and half skips in front of him.

“You _came out_!” he gasps. And then all but yells, “Adam, you came _out_!”

“Shout it louder, I don’t think the whole town knows yet,” Adam grumbles, half-heartedly under his breath. But he’s smiling. Pleased. He hopes his face isn’t too red.

Eric is still gripping his arm. Adam wants to hold his hand. It was warm last night. Not small and soft with hand cream like Aimee’s. Not rough like his own hands. Warm and smooth and strong. Solid.

“Shit, what about your dad?” Eric suddenly hisses, face open and full of alarm. Adam feels his face twitch. Not quite a wince. He grits his teeth and keeps walking. He’s not sure how to answer that. With Ola he had let himself feel angry. But with Eric, that feels too easy. Too surface level.

“Adam?” Eric looks concerned now. Careful again.

Adam shakes his head. Trying to clear it of his dad’s face deflating like soggy tissue. His throat is tight. He shakes his head again. Eric frowns. He drops Adam’s arm. They keep walking. The wind has picked up a bit. The quiet roars. Adam clears his throat.

“What were your parents like?” he asks at last. “When you came out? Were they-” He stops. He can’t imagine Eric’s parents shouting like his dad. Sneering. Faces pinched.

Eric shrugs.

“They were fine, I guess. I mean, they didn’t really- say anything.” He looks at Adam. “Are you- okay?”

It’s not something he’s thought about. Really. He blinks. He’s not used to checking in on how he’s feeling. He normally waits until it bubbles over on the surface. Is he okay?

He mentally prods at his insides. They’re sore. The ache from last night hasn’t really gone anywhere. But it still doesn’t feel new. It feels old. Half-healed and reopened over and over again. Messy. Scarred.

He shrugs. Trying to close the door again in his head. He feels small. A bit lost. He shakes his head.

Eric bumps his shoulder. Pushing him gently back to the present. Eric doesn’t look as unsure anymore. He looks pretty steady on his feet. Like he knows. He holds out a hand. Adam looks at it for a second and grabs it like a lifeline.

It feels amazing. Warm and smooth. Like a tether to safety. To solid ground. Like something is passing through their hands. Not filling the empty spaces inside, but coating the sharp edges. Just easing thing a little. The warmth seeps up his arm.

They walk in silence, holding hands.

Adam feels a bit self-conscious. He feels exposed. But at the same time it feels- Right. Like he’s the one with ground to stand on and anyone who thinks otherwise can just go screw themselves. It’s kind of exhilarating. And he’s holding Eric’s hand.

He wants to grin. He wants to kiss him again. Feel him even closer. Here. Out in the open. But he’s still not quite sure where they stand. Can he just kiss him? In broad daylight? Where people might see? Might say something? Would Eric be okay with that?

They come up to a swing park. Empty. Slightly rusty. Eric tugs him through the gate to the swings. It’s quiet again, but this time it doesn’t feel like a step back. It feels okay.

Adam sets his swing moving. Swaying really. More fidgeting than actually swinging. Eric sort of does the same.

“When did you- know?” Adam wonders out loud. He remembers Eric always being colourful. Can’t even imagine Eric having a girlfriend or trying to pretend he was straight. Remembers watching him and wishing- something. He didn’t know what. Feeling annoyed at how Eric, just, was.

“I think I just- knew?” Eric says, like it’s a question. “Like, I wasn’t suddenly like, ‘oh my God, I’m gay’. I just was.”

He grins and looks at Adam.

“Although, coming back to school in year 10 and there suddenly being muscles and sweat everywhere did kind of confirm it for me.”

Adam scoffs at the slightly faraway look in Eric’s eyes, and shoves his shoulder. Eric grins back at him a bit sheepishly.

“What about you?” He asks. Like he’s scared to know the answer.

Adam examines the broken concrete under his feet. He did have an aha moment. Or, more like an oh no moment. A bit more recently than year 10.

“I didn’t know what bisexual was.” Adam admits. “I didn’t know what it meant. I thought, maybe I was just- confused. I don’t know.” He shrugs again. “I thought maybe I just liked you.”

He glances up at Eric. Eric looks like he’s trying not to look pleased. If he was talking to a girl like this, feeling like this, he would say he thought they was hot. Should he say he thinks Eric is hot? Would that be weird?

“I don’t know how to say I like you,” he admits instead. Say what you’re thinking, Ola had told him.

“I think you just say ‘I like you’,” Eric says slowly. Then he smiles, something glittering in his eyes that isn’t makeup. He looks down and up. “I like you,” he says, softly. Deliberately.

Adam feels like the swing has just taken off. He stops swinging. His heart is pounding. His gut swoops. He stands up, away from the swing.

“I- I want to kiss y-” He’s cut off by Eric’s mouth on his. It’s not soft. Or tentative. It’s firm and certain. Open mouthed and hot. Eric is fully in his space, hands on the lapels of his jacket, holding him in place. He’s not quite as tall as Adam, but he’s solid against Adam’s chest. Shit that’s really hot.

Adam’s hands move tentatively. He wants to tug Eric closer. Impossibly close. Wants to feel the weight of him. Wants to savour the contact. He doesn’t know quite where to put his hands.

He knows where he _wants_ his hands. Underneath Eric’s tight, brightly coloured clothes. Touching his warm, smooth skin. They’ve only been close like that once. And it had been impulsive. Risky. Rushed. Adam had pushed. Shoved. Thrown them both on the floor. Reckless. Eric had shoved back. It had scared him how much he had liked Eric pushing back, on top of him, against him. So fucking close.

He had just wanted- He hadn’t known what he had wanted. And then Eric was looking up at him, mouth open and under him. And he had wanted-

And Adam had wanted to let him know, somehow. And then he had remembered _that_ video. The one from the beginning of the year. Eric, drunk and overly enthusiastic, at Aimee’s stupid party. Mouth around a fucking banana. Eric saying that enthusiasm was more important than technique. And then-

Shit. Thinking about it has him slightly hard. Or maybe that’s the kiss. He feels too warm in his jacket. Heat coiling low in his pelvis.

Eric has a hand on his neck. And a hand just above his hip. Adam wants to press himself against him. Wants-

Eric pulls away. Just an inch. Adam feels cold at the loss. He’s breathing hard. Lips parted. Adam wants to tug him back.

Eric’s grinning. Bright and open and exhilarated. He laughs softly. And kisses Adam again. This time just a press of lips. Adam sways forward with him when he pulls away.

It’s just starting to get dark. The clouds making the light dull before it should. Eric’s eyes are wide and happy. Teeth white in the dimming light. Adam feels a tug of something nice in his chest. His face feels hot. He feels off kilter in a good way. Like stepping off a roller coaster. Like he wants to go again.

Eric looks down, smile still splitting his face.

“I should- go back. For dinner.” He looks slightly embarrassed, but happy. Like he had last night. Thrilled and hopeful. Warm. Adam nods, reluctantly. He wants to just keep looking at him. Soak him in. Let the feeling seep into his bones.

Eric pauses before he turns to go. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Adam may not really do words, but he can understand that look.

He leans in, to kiss Eric again. Drawing it out, just a little. Trying to breathe him in. And then he lets the him walk away.


	6. Chapter 6

Jean Milburn is right in his face when Adam gets home. She’s as well put together as always, but she’s clutching a glass of water with a fierce intensity. His mum is swirling a glass of red wine, looking slightly flushed. Like this might not be the first glass. His mum smiles warmly at him.

It all just feels like a lot.

“Adam!” his mum chirps, oblivious. “Have you met Jean?”

Adam nods at Dr Milburn distractedly. He hopes she hasn’t spoken to his mum about him. His mum does not need to know that they shared a spliff last year.

“So, how was your day?” his mum continues on. He doesn’t remember her being this chatty before. It’s just another thing. He shrugs.

He needs some time to digest the day. It’s all too close for him to describe. Just under his skin. Just- a lot. And Jean Milburn sat in his living room is just yet thing on top of a lot of things. The icing on the haystack. Jean Milburn is smiling her knowing smile. Smiling like she knows. Which- she does, he realises. Losing a beat to double take. She was there at the play. His dad had called her out partway through. When he was shouting about teenagers not knowing what they want. She’d been right there. And she knows Eric. And Otis seems like the kind of kid to tell his mum all he knows. So she might know more than he does about what Eric is thinking. And she’s right there in his living room.

Adam is torn between wanting to run and staying to know what is being said. Except- he also really needs a piss.

“I gotta- um- use the loo. Bathroom. Uh-” He nods abruptly and jerkily spins on the spot.

For a second he doesn’t know where to go. Downstairs loo? Closer, but cold. Upstairs toilet? Further, but warmer. And away from this situation. Away it is. He dashes up the stairs two at a time.

He still vaguely hears Jean, voice amused, saying: “Teenagers.” Then the bathroom door bangs closed, fan whirring noisily to life with the light.

He can’t have Jean tell his mum about Eric before he does. It feels wrong. Like he was embarrassed of Eric. Which he isn’t. Or like he doesn’t trust his mum. Which is more true, but still not why. Not that she knows who Eric is. He thinks. Would she? Maybe she would. Eric doesn’t really blend in.

Adam looks at himself in the mirror. He looks pale. Scruffy. He hopes the Effiongs didn’t notice that. His face itches a bit with light five o’clock shadow.

But what if his mum was okay with him being bisexual in theory, but not in practice? What if she asked him questions he couldn’t answer just yet? What if it was too soon to say anything? What if Eric changed his mind tomorrow? What if-

He wants to hit something. Kick something. Break something. But not here. He forces himself to take a breath instead. One thing at a time. Piss first. Think after.

His hands shake as he works his jeans open. And- He can’t piss. Come on. Piss, piss, piss. He can hear faint laughter from downstairs. Shit. Nope. Come on, just piss.

He closes his eyes and starts to count.

Before things went to shit at military school, one of the other guys had called him out on overthinking. Not the bloody irony asshats that had ended up getting him kicked back home. Another guy. Mousy hair. Non-descript face. Tall. Name beginning with H maybe. Somewhere near him in drills. Adam had nearly smacked him in the face with the nose of his rifle. He’d snarled, ‘You look fucking constipated Groff. Stop thinking so hard. Relax. Just breathe and count. One, two, three. Move, tap, move. Easy.’

Adam had just stood there, trying to resist the urge to hurl the damn rifle on the ground. Or hit the guy. But in the end, it had actually helped. Once he’d learnt any of the drills anyway. And it worked for other stuff too. Like peeing.

He keeps counting as he washes his hands. Then washes his hands again.

Does he tell his mum about Eric now?

A few months ago he would have dashed downstairs, yelled that he was maybe sort of seeing Eric at his mum and Jean, and then run off somewhere to get high and forget about everything. He sort of still wants to. Just get it out there. Out from under his skin. Just fling it into the sitting room and run. Like the information is a bomb, or a grenade. Anything to avoid sitting with it all evening. With it ticking. Feeling like it might go off at any second.

But at the same time, what he has with Eric is too important to throw around. And he doesn’t want to run away from it. Even if the impact might hurt. Even if it’s fucking terrifying. He feels exposed. But, like his mum said, if something’s important you have to fight for it. Even if you risk getting hurt.

His hands are shaking again as he opens the door. He feels oddly far away.

He takes the steps slowly. It feels a bit like he’s underwater. His chest is a little bit tight. His legs feel slow and heavy. But at the same time, he feels like he’s floating. He drifts back into the living room. The air is a bit off. His mum looks a bit lost, and Jean is still clutching her glass of water like it is the last glass on Earth.

“I’m fine,” Jean is saying. Fiddling with her hair. “I just- I’m just not- I-”

The faltering protests are so unlike the cool and collected Jean Milburn that Adam has met before. And actually she looks a bit tired. Just a little frayed around the edges.

She seems to take Adam’s arrival as some sort of get out free card. She smiles at him. Like she’s trying to pass the baton. Cover something up. Even adults have stuff they don’t want to talk about. Adam gets it. Maybe it’s not the right time for Jean Milburn too.

“Want me to help with dinner, mum?” he broaches. Anything to have something concrete to do.

“It’s all in the oven,” His mum says slowly. She looks vaguely suspicious for a second, but then seems to let it go. She smiles again. She seems happy. “I’m finally trying that tagine pot my sister gave me for my birthday last year. Adam’s father never liked Middle Eastern food.” She comments to Jean, who nods knowingly.

“I have always found that men who don’t want to try new food are risk averse in other areas of life,” Jean’s voice is measured and fluid again. She seems more settled in this line of conversation. Adam really hopes she’s not about to ask about his dad’s sex life. His mum laughs.

“That’s Michael,” she agrees, with a half-wry, half-exasperated sigh.

“Do you remember when Aunty Ali gave him that pink shirt?” Adam adds, trying to steer the topic away from sex. But the room goes quiet again. Oddly quiet. The two women look at him.

“That was a long time ago, Adam,” his mum says softly. Too softly. He frowns. They both look- sort of troubled, but he doesn’t understand why.

It’s a distant memory. It had occurred to him as something his dad had refused to try for no particular reason. His dad had been furious. Had been muttering about it for the rest of the day, and Adam’s Aunt Alice had been vaguely annoyed with him for a while after that. It had seemed a bit odd to Adam. He was maybe six, or seven at the time. He was obviously aware that pink was more of a girl colour, but he had thought that only applied to kids. Grown-ups seemed to wear whatever colour they wanted. The shirt wasn’t even that pink. And it was definitely a man’s shirt. He didn’t think that Aunty Ali was trying to embarrass his dad, or whatever else he was muttering about. It was just a shirt.

Adam hadn’t thought any more of it. He’s not six anymore, but he hadn’t connected _his_ sexuality to pink shirts. Until now. Now he sort of thinks he should get a pink shirt as a ‘fuck you’ token. His skin feels too tight. Too thin.

“Some men can be very- fragile in their sense of masculinity,” Jean is saying into the silence. Her voice is in therapy mode. It’s odd, but kind of soothing too. “Academic men often feel a need to compensate for a perceived lack of virility in their careers. This can culminate in using other societal standards of masculinity to affirm their identity. Like outward appearances, or their role in a family. When these superficial aspects of masculinity are not maintained, these men feel- threatened, exposed, afraid. In order to attempt to reaffirm their ‘male identity’, these men lash out.”

“So my dad is a dick because he’s scared of looking like a girl,” Adam translates flatly. His mum half-chokes on a sip of her wine.

“Adam!” she squeaks. Jean just looks at him. An eyebrow slides up. Her mouth twitches into a half smile.

“I’d say that your dad is a ‘dick’ because he’s insecure. He’s more concerned about how he’s perceived than what he actually does. More concerned with appearances than what is actually true,” she says carefully.

She sips her water. And then she waits, like she’s expecting discussion. Like Adam’s someone she could have a real conversation with. Like he’s worth talking to. Like he’s not just a stupid child whose opinion will never matter. He knew he liked Jean Milburn.

“Do you think I’m like my dad?” he asks abruptly. He’s not sure where it comes from, exactly. But it suddenly feels important to hear from Jean. She looks a bit troubled by the question. She blinks, and frowns. But she doesn’t look away. She considers him.

“I think- sometimes people try so hard to be different from their parents that they end up becoming more like them. And I think that the way in which you are raised has a big impact on the way you are as a person,” she says in that slow smooth voice.

Adam grits his teeth. He wants her to just say no. That he’s completely different. But he also wants the truth. And he knows exactly what she means when she talks about lashing out to feel less weak. That dark something that curls under his skin. That impulse. Like fighting with his sister. Who got away with everything. Who was better than him. Smarter and funnier and nicer and better. Getting a jab in that actually made her angry had felt like beating her at something. Finally. Lashing out was easy. Easier than thinking about it. Feeling it.

And there’s been so much he didn’t want to think about. Didn’t want to feel. Lashing out was less painful. For him. And if he was never going to be good enough anyway, it felt pointless to fight it. Even when lashing out sometimes made everything a million times worse.

“But I also think that people are more defined by their choices than their environment,” she continues, snapping him back to the present. Looking through him. “I think that all any of us can do, is try to make choices which are true to ourselves and our values. You have made some bad choices, but you have also made choices more recently which strike me as very brave and very honest. Choices which I don’t think your father would have had the guts to make.” She stops for a second. Nods. Then she smiles at him, wryly. “I don’t think you’re a dick, Adam Groff.”

It’s- a relief. And its something nicer. It feels like high praise coming from Jean Milburn. Adam rates her. He trusts her. And even though he has sufficient composure, when not high, to avoid calling her a wise old owl (again), he really does think she knows what’s what. Shit, he can’t remember if he called her a sexy witch to her face or not. He really hopes not. God, he hopes not.

There’s a friendly pause in the room. Adam pokes at his feelings again. It’s not a door he usually opens so often, but so much has been happening over the past few days that it feels necessary. Especially if he doesn’t want everything to explode in his face. Things still feel turbulent in there. Lots of debris flying around. But he feels less frantic than that morning.

A timer bell screams. Adam jumps out of his skin. His mum all but leaps out of her chair. Wine sloshing dangerously close to escaping the glass over the cream carpet.

“That’s my cue to set the table!” she exclaims, brightly, startling Adam as she bustles across the room. She’s humming. His mum never hums. Or drinks wine. Or wears heels. Although apparently she does now.

Adam goes to stand up to follow her. But Jean catches his arm.

“Adam, just-” she stands up too. “What you did yesterday was very brave.”

She’s a bit shorter than he remembers. She seems less full of life than she had on her balcony, pulling tokes of his weed. It’s strange. He wonders what’s happened. Is she sick or something? She pauses. Like she’s not sure what to say next. She looks like she wants to ask something. But she doesn’t. She just claps him on the shoulder and walks past him through to the kitchen.

Adam feels exposed. Vulnerable. But also. Free.


	7. Chapter 7

Dinner is fine. His mum still seems puzzled by something. Jean insists that she would not like any wine, but that the food is delicious. Which it is. Different, but- good. Like today, Adam thinks tentatively.

Jean leaves not long after dinner. The dishes are all in the sink. The entire house smells a bit like spices and warmth. Adam wonders if Eric has had tagine cooking before. Probably, he thinks.

His mum is sat on the couch, feet tucked under herself again. She wouldn’t have done that last week. Adam’s dad would have scowled and cleared his throat. And the dishes would not have been left either. But his mum without his dad seems like an entirely different person. Someone Adam has never met before. Someone more human. Someone he likes a bit more.

She’s half watching something on the TV, half scrolling something on her phone. It’s past nine which means that Adam’s phone should technically be under house arrest by now. But his mum doesn’t seem to follow that rule either.

“Mum,” Adam says. She looks up from her phone half-guiltily, like she’s remembering the rules too. But then she just smiles and tucks her phone underneath her. Like a chicken sitting on an egg. She looks at him. Smile wide and more real than his dad ever seemed to muster.

“Can-” Adam falters. He wants to talk to someone about seeing Eric. Wants to tell someone about Eric who doesn’t already know. Wants to talk about someone he really, really likes with his mum. His unusually human seeming mum. “Can I- talk to you- about- something?”

His voice sounds odd and disjointed. Flat. Catching on nearly every other word. Like he’s forgotten how to speak. His mum just nods. Smile turned down a couple of watts, but warm. Genuine.

Adam feels restless. Like he wants to pace the room. Or to curl up into a ball and shrink out of existence. Or to stay very, very still. Like if he doesn’t move his mum might forget he’s there. She tilts her head at him.

“Adam?” Her voice is gentle. Like when he was little.

Adam feels frozen in place. He wants to keep talking. But his throat is stuck. Can he take it back? Just say, never mind, and dash up to his room? He could, he thinks. It wouldn’t even be entirely out of character. His mum might not even notice something was up. He stays where he is.

She moves. Slowly. She untucks her legs and stands up. Her phone stays lying on the sofa. White and rectangular on grey cushions. Her feet are bare. She pads over to him on the other sofa. She looks a bit worried now.

Adam shakes his head. Like that might clear things up. It doesn’t.

“Hey, it’s okay sweetheart. It’s okay,” she murmurs. She puts an arm around his back.

“Mum, are you-” Adam’s voice falters again. Like it’s broken. He takes another breath. In. Out. Words. “Mum. Are you- you know-”

His chest hurts. Like it did last night. Out of nowhere. And his eyes hurt. Burn. Sting. And Adam doesn’t even know where it’s coming from. He just feels- tired. Exhausted. But he wants to talk about Eric. And there’s just enough of a spark of hope in that thought that he remembers to take another breath. In. Out. One. Two. He can do this.

“Are you really okay with, the- the- bisexual- thing?” he manages. His voice sounds strained. Lost. Tired. Desperate.

He forces himself to look at his mum. Take in her expression. Looking for cracks. She looks really sad all of a suddens.

“Oh sweetheart,” she murmurs. Her eyes are shiny. She pulls him to her. He can’t keep looking at her. It hurts too much. He’s left the feelings door open too long. She tugs until he’s half leaning against her, warm against his side. “Adam, I love you. I _love_ you. With all my heart. And this does not change any of that. Not one bit. Okay?”

She ruffles his too short hair. His chest is still throbbing with it. The pain. But somehow, this time, it feels a tiny bit cleaner. Like her holding him is burning out some of the mess in his insides. His nose is dripping. He sniffs. Okay. He can do this.

“There is a-” Adam’s throat catches. His heart is racing again. Can he really say this out loud? “There- is a- a guy, mum,” he whispers. Like his dad could be listening in. Could storm in at any moment. Could storm in and shout that Adam doesn’t know what he wants or what he’s doing. Storm in and tell him that he’s an embarrassment. A joke. He risks looking up at her. She’s beaming again. Her eyes are still wet, but she looks delighted. It’s not a superficial smile. Not a sad smile. It’s bright and real and excited.

“Do you want to tell me about him?” she says. Voice soft. Careful.

And he does. Want to tell her.

But it’s slow going. Adam doesn’t have words for any of this. Words are his sister’s thing. His dad’s thing. He wants to tell her it’s a guy from his year at school. Someone from before he went to military school. Someone he liked before that even, if he’s really honest.

He doesn’t really know how to describe Eric to his mum though. All the bright colours. How Eric is always so himself. Eric’s laugh. His smile. How he rolls his eyes. How he bites back and teases, but without being cruel. How he feels, warm and solid.

His mum just watches him. Smile firmly in place.

“Does he know?” she asks. “That you like him?”

Adam nods. Face hot. She hasn’t heard about the play yet then. Which he supposes isn’t all that unexpected given that she does not go to his school.

“I think we- um-” he stops. What are they? Are they dating? Friends? Boyfriends? “Are seeing- each other?” It comes out as a question.

His mum laughs. Clear and quick. Happy. It’s- nice. Being able to talk to her. Adam hasn’t really spoken to her much over the past few years. Too much of his life had seemed unspeakable in this house. Taboo. Forbidden. He hadn’t had anything to say to her. So he hadn’t.

“Do you have a picture?” she asks suddenly. Adam blinks. A picture of Eric. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. It didn’t occur to him. Like the mobile number. But now it seems like something grossly lacking. Another thing he should have thought of.

He blinks at his phone. He feels vaguely betrayed by it. Like it should have told him about these things.

“No-” He frowns. But there might be another way. Eric must have some kind of social media with pictures on. Adam doesn’t actually have a Facebook anymore. Too much spam. Too few people to ‘friend’. And he didn’t really see the point. But he thinks he might still have Instagram. From when he and Aimee were dating. Aimee had been on Instagram constantly. And Eric would have Instagram too, right?

He hunts for the app on his phone. He can’t see the little camera icon. He swipes randomly through the apps. Maybe not. He searches ‘insta-’. Hands feeling slow and sluggish. And there it is. He taps it.

He can feel his mum’s eyes on him. And he’s a bit nervous now. Because showing his mum Eric is sharing something that he hasn’t really shared before. It’s a piece of him that is still fresh, and a bit raw. Skin still thin and soft.

He’s still logged in. On the app. Which is a relief because Adam would never have remembered the password. Unless it’s Madam123 like his school e-mail.

He’s met with a picture of Aimee pouting at him against a blue sky. But the photo below that is one of Eric’s. A group shot. Probably people from the play. All grinning. Arms slung around each other.

Adam’s mum is peering around his shoulder. His Instagram feed is pretty much Aimee and Eric. Because of course he was following Eric. Even last year. It’s- He can’t even remember how he explained that to himself. Before. It twists at something. But he’s definitely allowed now. He can look. He can even show his mum. He remembers Eric’s grin when he had told him earlier. About ‘coming out’.

He finds another photo of Eric. On his own this time. Probably a selfie. Grinning brilliantly at the camera. Jacket bright, bright purple. Because of course it would be. He nods at his phone.

“Is that him?” his mum asks, voice high with excitement. Adam can’t stop smiling. Even as his cheeks go red.

He goes to bed feeling like he’s living in someone else’s life. Someone whose mum listens to him talk about the guy he is seeing. Someone who is seeing a guy. An amazing guy. Someone who has friends. Who has things to look forward to.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so today, I am introducing a new character *deep breaths* The elusive Groff sister. And my (slightly pretentious) headcanon currently stands that she is called Gabrielle/Gabby. AKA like the angel, to Adam as the first man. I figured maybe the Groffs named them both Biblically and I quite like the clumsy analogy as a way to explain Mr Groff's attitude to each of them.   
> My hypothesis does also extend that if the Grofffs had had a middle child we might have had a Lucifer type rebelling situation, but lets not digress too much.

When Adam wakes up he has a text. From Eric. Eric has texted him. Twice. He sits up so suddenly that his vision goes dark for a second.

> Hey, was really good to see you yesterday :) You doing anything today?  
>  _09:32_
> 
> No pressure if youre busy ofc. Late notice. But would like to see you if youre free?  
>  _10:46_

It’s 11. Eric texted at 9.30 and again at 10.45. Eric wants to see him. His face almost hurts with how much he wants to smile. Sunday does usually mean family lunch. His mum, his dad, his mum’s parents, sometimes his sister. But after that he should be able to make his excuses. And then- Eric.

Except. He feels something sink. Family lunch. His dad. Is that- Is that still going to happen?

His fingers itch to text Eric back. Except he’s not sure what to say. Normal family lunches are done by 2. He could guarantee being able to meet Eric by 3 with time to change if he threw any food down his clothes. Brush his teeth. Maybe even shower. But today it’s an unknown.

He should go and shower first. That’s his usual routine on the weekend. Avoid his dad for as long as possible. But, today he feels on edge. And he wants to text Eric back. Wants to make a plan to look forward to. He drags on a t-shirt from the floor that doesn’t smell too bad, and a pair of pyjamas that are several inches too short in the leg. It’ll do. He’s just going to go see if his mum can tell him what the plan is.

He’s already downstairs when he realises that there are voices plural coming from the kitchen. He considers racing straight back up the stairs. But he really wants to be able to text Eric back.

He moves quietly around the end of the bannister. It’s a voice he knows. He stops in the entrance to the kitchen. She hasn’t seen him yet. Her back is to him. She’s let her hair grow long again, but its up in a ponytail like usual. Her rucksack is on the floor at her feet.

“And then one of the guys chased it out of the lecture theatre with a book. It was hilarious!” she finishes. Adam’s mum laughs. And then notices Adam watching them.

“Morning!” she says brightly. And Adam’s sister spins around.

She looks so familiar, and different at the same time. She has new glasses with dark rims. She’s wearing a bit more make-up than she used to when she was living at home. She also looks more tired, but that could just be from travelling.

“Adam!” she exclaims. She bounces over to him. She squints at him. “I thought I told you not to grow any more, kiddo,” she gripes. And then grins and tugs him into a crushing hug.

And actually, it’s been a long time since he’s seen his sister now he thinks about it. He must have been stuck at boarding school the last few times she’s come home. He’s not seen her since Christmas. Since before everything. He feels different too. He hugs her back.

“I was just telling mum about this mouse that go into our lecture last week,” she grins. And Adam suddenly realises that she can’t know. She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know about their parents separating. She doesn’t know about him. She doesn’t know any of it.

He looks at his mum. Trying to read the plan in her face.

“Oh, Adam. Do you want to go and get dressed quickly? Your father has gone to get a couple of groceries, but he should be back soon. Your grandparents aren’t coming today, so I thought we could have a quieter lunch. Just toasted sandwiches. Something easy.” She smiles. It’s almost flawless. Adam really hopes that she is planning on telling Gabby today, because he doesn’t want to tell her accidentally.

He’s just about to do just that, when he remembers the reason he came down in the first place.

“Mum, can I go out after lunch? I want to- go-” he trips on the words. Because Gabby is here, and Gabby doesn’t know. His face feels hot. “I was going to go and meet- someone.”

And of course, Gabby picks up on it immediately.

“Oh my god, is there a girl?” she laughs. Loudly. It feels horrible. Adam baulks. It feels like all of the blood has frozen. It drops out of his face. It makes him feel inside out. He feels like he needs to work himself up to telling Gabby. But he doesn’t want to lie about Eric. He doesn’t want to hide. He feels like a coward.

“Gabs, come on now,” his mum tries, mildly.

“Oooh, a girlfriend then?” she trills. Adam feels the familiar dark, messy feeling rising. He wants to tell her to shut the fuck up. Snap that she wouldn’t know because she’s never had a relationship. Shut her down. Storm out. But that’s not how he wants to be. Who he wants to be. He feels his face pinch. He just stays very still. Lets it wash over. Shakes his head. Gabby looks surprised. Like maybe she was seeking out the familiar response.

Their mum steps in.

“Gabby, leave him alone. He can tell us when he’s ready,” she says firmly. “Adam, of course you can. Just-” She doesn’t look entirely sure how to finish her thought. He has a split-second image of her telling him to ‘just be safe’. Like safe sex. Like Jean Milburn might say without even a flinch. And he cringes internally at the thought. “Will you come back for dinner?”

He nods quickly, and high-tails out of the room. Because he does not want either of them to read on his face that he even half thought about sex. Even in the abstract.

Except now, he is. Thinking about sex. Thinking about sex with Eric. Which he has thought about before. But now, they’re sort of seeing each other right? That makes the thought a lot more- well- real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I will end with a note that there may be scenes of a sexual nature in coming chapters. Just in case some of y'all forgot the name of the show or something.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, fyi for readers at home, we are no longer quite at PG-13. Nothing ultra explicit, more just a reminder of which show I'm writing about here.

Adam taps out a text quickly.

He looks at the message. Eric hadn’t signed off his messages with anything. Aimee had always ended their texts with a double x. Kiss kiss. She had said it felt unfriendly when there were no kisses at the end. But Adam can’t imagine Eric and New Kid ending their texts with an x like Aimee did with her friends. And Eric didn’t put an x at the end. Maybe he can ask Eric later. That was what Ola had said. That he should just be honest. And ask about stuff.

He hits send.

> Woud like to see you too. Is 3 ok?  
>  _11:13_

He grabs a clean pair of jeans. Ones without holes today. These are his tight jeans. Although, they’re not that tight. They’re not skinny jeans like Gay Ki- Shit, he really shouldn’t call him that- Like uh, Anwar wears. But they’re tighter than Adam’s usual jeans. Fitted. He has a vague memory of Aimee liking these jeans. He’s sort of hoping that maybe Eric will like these jeans. That maybe Eric will really like these jeans. Or rather, Adam in these jeans.

His phone buzzes as he locks the door to the bathroom.

> Great! See you then. Meet my house?  
>  _11:14_

Adam tugs off the too small pyjamas. He’s hoping Eric will like him without the jeans too. Without anything on. Which is a very dangerous train of thought when he needs to be quick in the shower.

Adam should think of something else. He should just think about something gross, quickly scrub shampoo through his hair and get dressed. But he’s already half-hard with just the passing thought. And the shower is warm. And he has at least 15 minutes before he needs to be downstairs, right?

Eric’s body has always felt more solid than he expected. He’s fairly sure Eric doesn’t play any sports. He definitely isn’t on any of the teams. But he does cycle to school, and maybe he works out. Adam likes the idea of Eric quietly working out on his own. Muscles working under his skin. Faintest sheen of sweat.

Eric was stronger than Adam had thought too, shoving back in the music room. Flipping them. It had sent a thrill through Adam that he hadn’t known what to do with. And then he’d kissed Eric. Hard. Desperate.

And then he’d tugged open Eric’s fly and put his mouth around Eric’s cock. He was a bit distracted by _doing_ at the time. Trying to watch Eric for his reaction. Trying to make him feel good, then better. But then he was getting lost in the sounds coming out of Eric’s mouth, going straight to his groin. Lost in a way that he had so rarely managed with Aimee.

And he wants to do it again.

He’s fully hard now. In the spray of the shower. He closes his eyes and strokes himself. Slowly.

That had scared him. After. When he had been freaking out. Not that he had sucked off another guy. That he had liked it. Really liked it. That he had come in his pants, rocking against the floor, jaw aching slightly. That he wanted to do it again. Almost more than he wanted Eric to touch him.

And then after, reliving everything in his head in technicolour. Eric pushing him back. Eric on top of him. Eric’s weight fully on him. He wanted- He didn’t know.

It had been hell at boarding school. Where the hell can you get off when you share a bunk in a room with 9 other guys? When the showers don’t have lockable doors, just curtains? Eli and Luke jacking each other off when everyone else left was as close to privacy as it got. But the bathroom stalls got a lot of use too.

The thought of Eric pushing him back. It was hot. Really hot. Hot and scary. He wants Eric to do it again. Hold him down. Kiss him like he needs to. Pressed against each other.

Yeah. Shit. He’s not far off.

He imagines its Eric’s hand. Strong, warm. Almost the same size as his. Imagines Eric is touching him. Grip firm. Confident. Stroking faster now. Imagines Eric’s eyes on him. Taking him apart. Imagines having his hands on Eric’s skin. Firm and smooth and hot. Kissing him. All tongue and firm lips, and the faintest scratch of stubble. Imagines Eric pressing him against the tiles of the shower with his body, still stroking him. Hard. Cupping his balls. Rocking against him as-

Fuck. Yes. Heat coils and bursts through Adam as he imagines Eric taking everything he has. And then he’s back in his bathroom feeling spent. Slightly wobbly.

He’s panting. Just slightly. He gives himself a second to come down from it, before he gets himself clean again.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few chapters written so far. Hopefully there will be a few more after these. Just know that actually finishing stories is unfortunatley not my strongest suit. Pre-warned is fore-armed.


End file.
